her stepfather told her mother many things, while she listened through the paper thin walls in the next room. where is my food, naya! I don't work hard to come home to sleep with an empty belly.
she knew the punch was coming, maybe a kick instead, depending on the day or the weather or the bus ride home - where only children dream and pregnant ladies absent-mindedly caress their bellies, and old men find themselves caught in memories where their arms were once thick and their legs taut with the promise of tomorrows.
anger and sadness weren't meant to be together, like oil and water they separate.she wonders how her mother can't see this, instead of drowning her eyes in tears for a man who sows emptiness where once stood forests, and who harvests islands out of people who were once joined, arms wrapped together with unfurled palms facing the open sky.
No comments:
Post a Comment